“It will be good for you, my son,” said his inexorable mentor; “do you a power of good. You want bringing out badly. You are a regular D’Orsay to what you were; when I knew you first, I never met your equal for greenness. Of course you are not very bright now; but if you only form the habit of going out into society a bit, you are quite likely to walk away from one or two of the more fancied performers who are making the running at present. The other day when I told young Davis that you could speak Greek like a native, he as good as called me a liar. I’ll tell you what it is, my son; if only you could be got to think a bit more of yourself; if only you would cultivate the habit of putting on a reasonable amount of side; if only you would pull up your socks a bit, you might easily, in your small way, make a bit of a mark. Of course you will never be Number One in anything; you will never see your name in large type; you’ll never be a James Dodson, my son, if you live to be as old as Methuselah, for the very good reason that you haven’t got it in you. But my advice to you is, form the habit of going out into society and see what it will do for you. I’ll guarantee that in one year your old aunt at Hither Green won’t know her own nephew.” William Jordan, Junior, however, was not to be shorn of his terrors by words so suave as these. Yet Mr. James Dodson had quite made up his mind that the party to be given in honour of his _fiancée_ should not be baulked of its chief lion, whose surprising attainment in a dead language Mr. Dodson had published abroad to an equally surprising extent. However, as the young man continued to persist in his unreasonable attempts to evade his responsibilities, a ray of meaning suddenly suffused the already sufficiently bright intelligence of Mr. James Dodson. “Of course, my son, I see, I see!” he exclaimed; “if you have never been to a party before, you are wondering about your kit. I think I know you well enough by now, old boy, to ask whether you have got an evening suit?” Mr. Jordan was fain to confess that although he was not thinking about an evening suit--whatever such an article of attire might be--he did not think he had got an evening suit. “Own up, if you haven’t,” said Mr. Dodson. “It is nothing to be ashamed of. Some chaps might think so, but I am not the least bit snobbish myself. Own up and I shall not think the worse of you.” Upon this encouraging assurance the young man inquired if there was any substantial difference between an evening suit and an ordinary night-gown in which one went to bed. When in all good faith the young man sought this information, he and his mentor chanced to be passing the brightly-illumined window of a Fleet Street tailor. Mr. James Dodson stopped abruptly. With great earnestness he peered into his companion’s wan and troubled countenance. For the first time in their intercourse the _bona fides_ of William Jordan, Junior, were seriously called in question.